


Cutting Glass

by ph0tocynthia



Category: Jane and the Dragon
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Mental Disorders, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Rating May Change, Rivalmance, Rivalry, Rowing, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sports, but it's healthy, crew - Freeform, minor Pepper/Rake, no you don't have to know about rowing, the amount of innuendos that can be made using crew vocab are Far Too many and you will see them all, yes they will sleep together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25776985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph0tocynthia/pseuds/ph0tocynthia
Summary: All that Gunther had planned for his years at Kippernia University, a prestigious liberal arts school on the east coast, was to keep his head down and become the Crew team's stroke seat and captain. Moving the school's status up to notoriety. It was all lined up for him by the spring quarter of his second year--metal at the spring races, take the stroke seat, and spend his last two years leading his boat into victory, then it was law school under the behest of his father.And then a stubborn red-head had to come in and ruin it all his plans.
Relationships: Gunther Breech/Jane Turnkey
Comments: 10
Kudos: 6





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> _  
>  **Rowing vocab:**   
>  _
> 
> **  
> _Mixed 8+:_  
> **  
>  _A boat in which there are four male rowers and four female rowers, and each rower only has one oar (8 total oars) + a coxswain_
> 
> _**Empacher** : A brand of rowing boats—used by DI schools and Olympic rowers. Picture here; their boats are usually a distinctive neon yellow, but they have made hot pink & neon green boats too._
> 
> _**Stroke/Stern Pair:** The "first" two rowers in a boat, seats 8 & 7\. They lead and set the pace of the boat. Seated at the back of the boat, in the stern._
> 
> _**Middle Four/Engine Room:** The middle four rowers in a boat made up of seats 6, 5, 4, & 3\. Typically, the strongest and tallest rowers._
> 
> _**Bow Pair:** The "last" two rowers in a boat in seats 2 & 1\. They are critical elements in the boat's stabilization and steering. Usually the smallest rowers, but by no means as small as the coxswain._
> 
> _**DI/DII** : Division I schools are highest level of intercollegiate athletics with the largest budgets and facilities; Division II schools have a less money and are more of an intersection where athletic students can compete at a high level, while maintaining much of a traditional collegiate experience._
> 
>   
> _Song for this chapter:[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctlpa6-DoLo)_
> 
> _  
> ___  
>   
> _Playlist[link](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4XeDAK44iaYjeDY4iIaGFz?si=jV_5ifwCRZuQbQnNzU-yDQ)_
> 
> __  
> 

_When I imagine how the story of my life plays, I always start at the end. I’d like to imagine it happy, when I leave the world in the wake of my legacy. Beloved by many after a long life, my ending not tragic. The middling bits are a still a work in progress, but I can visualize their general shape. They don’t worry me. It’s how I get there, where it all starts. I can never get the hang of beginnings. I’m not quite sure where in my life to start my story—the absolute beginning isn’t that great. Trust me, I lived it. We can skip past my lonely childhood and obnoxious pre-teen years. I swear I’ll only bring up them if it’s important. But really, do you want to hear about me being a snot-nosed brat after my mom disappeared? No, you don’t, I didn’t really like living it, so you shouldn’t have to subjected hear it. I figure, that the best spot to begin is just when things get interesting, right at the end of my second year of college._

_Oh yeah, an introduction would be good. My name is Gunther Breech, a 21-year-old pre-law economics major at Kippernia University. I took a gap year after high school to intern for in father’s company only to discover that, wow, shockingly I hate business. So, if I couldn’t lead what my father had built, I was resigned by my father to the second-best option, defending it. Law school it is, or rather, will be, in two years. Thank God I tolerate that work well enough or else I’d be shipped off to med school. (No thanks.)_

_Enough about school though, more about me. I’m tall, dark, handsome, and like long walks on the … okay I’ll stop. (But these are true facts, mostly.) I’m 6’2”, with tanned olive skin and dark hair. My tinder is never empty, so I’d like to think I’m attractive. Liking long walks on the beach is almost true. I just prefer to sit on the dock and look at the water for hours. I always find myself drawn to the water like a bird is to the sky. I’m not perfect, that much is obvious. I can be a bit conceited and extremely grumpy if I don’t get my 9 hours of sleep, but I’m one of the best rowers on the KippU crew team. And damn proud of that fact too. It’s the only thing my father put into my life that I have come to love. There is something so beautiful about the water at 6am, when it is calm and glassy. It looks so soft as the sunrise lazily dapples the gentle peaks. The best part is when our oars cut through the glass as we glide down the channel—a show of beautiful power. Those mornings make it worth the 5am wake up call._

_But, for as much as this story is about me, you see just as much about Jane Turnkey._

_You see, I never felt like an active participant in my life before. I did what I was told and never really wanted anything. But Jane has spent her whole life endless wanting more and shooting past other’s expectations of her. For the last two years, I have held 7 seat in Mixed 8+ boat—a boat that singlehandedly is moving our university’s fleet up in the rowing community. We race in a sleek neon green Empacher called The Cleva, with Dragon and I making up the stern pair. We are followed by Smithy, Rake, Imari, Talia in the middle four, and Lavinia and Jester as the bow pair. We all fought hard for these seats and metaled consistently in the fall races with this lineup. Now, just beginning the spring sprint races, we are ready to sweep the competition and move from a DIII to a DII school. To take our rightful place in status._

_Just as I am. Not that I hate rowing as 7 seat, but why would I follow when I could lead? This is Dragon’s last spring season before he graduates and it’s no secret that I am the prospective pick to replace him. No other rower has yet to match my records besides him. And when I’m stroke seat, all I need to do is become Captain to finally get approval from my father. My progress is never good enough for him. As long as I’m 7 seat, he will always see it as not good enough. So, I’m more than just determined to move our school’s ranking and my own up, I am unwaveringly, unquestioningly deadest on it._

_And then Jane happened._

_Maggots._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please comment/share your thoughts!


	2. Race Pace, or 1min, 41s per 500m

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rowing video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uOO__4BC5t0
> 
> _  
> **Rowing vocab:**  
>  _
> 
> **Coxswain:** Pronounced “cocks-in.” (I know, lol.) The smallest person on the team whose role is to be the “brain” of the boat; a cox steers the boat, shouts commands, motivates rowers, etc…. Only person to face forwards to the direction of travel. Use a mic called a _coxbox_ , that connects to a speaker system under the seats of the boat. 
> 
> **Rower** : The “muscle” of the boat. Referred to, when on the water, by seat number and/or which side they have their own on. Only 8 (stroke seat) and 1 (bow seat) not referred to by number. Face backwards from the direction of travel.
> 
> -A rower either rows or does crew; you don’t “row crew”
> 
> **2k** : 2000 meters race, standard of spring rowing competitions. Actual hell. Seriously.
> 
> -race competitions are called _regattas._
> 
> **Unisuit/Uni** : A one-suit made of spandex that rowers wear. Usually in their boat club’s colors. Usually rowers roll theirs down past waist level to cool down. Female rowers wear separate sport bras underneath.
> 
> **Power 10** : Ten strokes, as called/counted by the coxswain, in which a rower gives as much power as they can possibly exert (150% power).
> 
> **Parts of the Stroke** : Power comes from the LEGS; rowing = a leg sport! Not arms.
> 
> _Catch/Drive_ : Start of the stroke, oar enters water and is where the bulk of effort is. Rowers push back to pull the boat forward.
> 
> _Finish/Recovery_ : End of stroke, rowers slide forward to the starting position. The slowest part of the stroke; a 2:1 ratio with the previous part.
> 
> **Blade** : Another word used for the oar. Can be feathered (horizontal, cutting through the air) or squared (vertical, “scooping” through water), depending on which part of the stroke the rower is in or what call the cox makes.
> 
> **Novice** : New rowers in their first year of competing. Typically, freshmen. Weaker and less technical skill than varsity members, they aren’t respected until at least, their first regatta.
> 
> **Lightweight/Heavyweight:** Weight class used, separate limits between men and women’s crews. Rowing favors the tall and strong—classes add equity by allowing shorter athletes their own races. LWT men= 160lbs and under. LWT women= 130lbs and under. HW= greater than LWT limits.

_“Can't stop me now, yeah_

__

I'm right here at your door

__

I won't leave, I want more

__

_Come on, what's up, danger?”_

_What’s Up Danger , _Blackway & Black Caviar

“Annnnnnnnd SEND! _Together_ at the catch! THERE we go, keep hard on that pressure. Bury those blades in and clean up on that recovery!” Cuthbert shouts into the mic of his headset. His voice commanding and veering on his signature coxswain snarl. 18 years old and only 5’6”, this Napoleon of a man sends us through the race with his steering and commands. Our oars cut through the water—previously calm and glassy until the regatta began.

“At the 750, come on, another 250 and the adrenaline will finish this!”

I huff a breath at the catch. Here we are, the UKipp mixed 8+ racing in the semi-finalist heat. Placing in the top 3 of this one would qualify us to race in the finalist round. We have 750 of the 2,000 meters left. Here is where I question how necessary my continued survival is. This part is where my body threatens to fail me. I am on fire—lungs, thighs, hands all burn. I can’t get enough air, my muscles scream at me, and the two blisters on my right hand popped 500 meters ago. The sun is unrelenting, but the heat isn’t the only reason that my unisuit is soaked. I am drenched with sweat—dripping down from my face, to my arms, back—forming a puddle on my seat. I dare not wipe it off or even change the angle my face is at—Cuthbert would have my head for any movement that would upset the set of the boat and slow our course.

_Two hands on the oar, chin up_. _Make each stroke perfect_. Coach Theodore always was able to find some fault in my form and thought I was lazy with my technique on the water. He always said, “One stroke can doom your boat,” while glancing at me. Well that wouldn’t happen today. Not now, in the KCRI finalist round. The disappointment of my coaches would be nothing compared to what my father would have to say.

“Bring me past this boat! Give me control and power!” Cuthbert commands. That snaps my mind off the horrendous burning of my quads and abs, off the bagel that is currently creeping up my throat. Overtaking a boat is the exact motivation I need now. As long as I’m not passed out or currently vomiting, I can pull harder. I dare not glance out of the boat to see the enemy’s colors. It doesn’t matter who they are, only that we will _crush_ them.

Smithy, our 6 seat, wheezes behind me. A giant of a man at 6’4”—his nickname from the fact that he “hammers” out his strokes. Piss-poor technique made up by sheer fricking power. He could out pull me on the erg any day, but I have him beat on the water. Rake grunts behind him. Seats 6 through 3 are our engine room, rowers that pull hard but have less of the necessary finesse required of 2 and bow seat, the first pair of oars that break the water. Imari and Talia make up seats 4 and 3, respectively. The two Amazonian women stood at 5’11” and could leave Rake in the dust if not for the fact that he had 4”of height on them.

A battle cry comes from Lavinia. She is always the first scream, although today she “reserved” it until 50 meters in the race. Usually it was at 25 meters. She’s Cuthbert’s twin, but the only traits they shared were a commanding presence and a prissy attitude. She was impressively built and more than earned her title as two seat. And then there was Jester, barely large enough to be a rower, yet so clean with his strokes that he was essential for steering the boat.

Cuthbert’s cry pulls me back to focus, “Bring me past them! Last 500!”

And there, that last 500 meters is _ours_. They don’t stand a chance against us. We would pass them, not just by a hair, but entirely; beating them to the finish wasn’t enough, we had to _ruin_ them.

“That’s it Knights!” Control on that slide! Do NOT rush those strokes, we are dead even with the othr’ boat and I want to move it forward NOW.”

Dead even huh? A power ten is on its way. I focus on Dragon’s back, _eyes front Breech_. I follow his movements to a T. I’m his 7-seat, following him and translating each action to the rest of the boat. They follow _us_. We must be a perfect pair—matched in every way so the 6 rowers behind us can synch up.

“In two strokes, give me a Power Ten; EMPTY THE TANK!” Cuthbert voice growled, “That’s one, two! Power Ten now! ONE”

I make sure to sit up, giving the extra pressure at the catch and matching the increased stroke rate. We should be at a 36 rating now. I lose myself in the beautiful rhythm of the boat as the power surges through, from stern to bow, letting Cuthbert’s counting serve a chant that coaxes out all my remaining strength.

“THERE! That’s three! Send it! And Four!”

The oars all CLICK in time, all eight of us moving as one unit. I hear all eight slides’ roll in unison. I can’t tell where my effort ends and the rest of my boat’s begins. My blood pumping, I swear that I can feel it pulse in perfect time with Cuthbert’s calls.

“At their 5 seat! Bring me to their 4!”

_Come on Gunther, ruin them._ I want the enemy boat to work harder than they ever have before and place behind us. I want them to see that even at their best, they would never come close to us—they would only ever be second best.

“Six! Four left! And Seven! Don’t let up now—we are at their bow pair! Eight! Put open water between us! Perfect! Keep it hard!”

I can barely even register the fact that I have also been letting out my own shouts. I was too lost in keeping in time with Dragon’s own angry huffs, in time with his strokes. Each movement he makes I replicate perfectly: lean-back, arms in, _breathe_ , quick arms out, body over, slightly twist my right hand, slide up, crouch in, drop the blade, and _explode_ at the catch. _Eight_!

“NOW give me NINE! Take me over that finish! TEN!”

Good god. It’s over.

The switch in Cuthbert’s voice is the most soothing thing I have heard all day. From rough and fierce, to comforting and congratulatory; it’s what we all need now, a cox not screaming.

“Alright Knights, let’s ease it up. Let’s bring it down by two beats each stoke. Good work.”

No matter how exhausted I am, I never fail to preen at the sound of a happy cox.

“Bring it down to paddle in two strokes. One and that’s two. Great push in that final 500! You guys terrified the geese though. Those poor birds.”

_There were geese on the water?_ I take the fact that I didn’t notice them as a testament to my laser-sharp focus and not as exhaustion induced brain-fog. The easy strokes, slow with light pressure, that take us to the dock feel wonderous compared to the torturous ones we had only a minute ago. I focus now on catching my breath and keeping my food down.

“Alright, making the turn in. In two, starboards hold water and ports sit easy. One and two!”

With a quick flick, I square my blade, and bury it in the water, while Dragon and the other port-side rowers slap their blades flat on the water. I feel the press of the water against my oar, turning the boat starboard.

“All 8, sit easy.” With that, all eight blades lay flat against the water and we are poised at half-slide, ready for the next call.

“Lavinia, two light strokes. And there, weight enough. Alright, stern four, take us in. Sit ready,” Rake, Smithy, Dragon and I all slide forward to the catch, blades squared and ready to drop into the water. “And row! Light pressure!”

I’m barely winning the battle with my stomach and to be one of the only four people rowing is cruel. _Well, everyone is as exhausted as you. If you had trained harder in the winter, maybe you wouldn’t be so tired lazy boy_. Ugh. I push my father’s voice from my mind. The bow four is smaller than the stern four and it’s only fair that the heaviest pull the most. We take smooth, gentle strokes, slow on the water as we come closer to the dock. I cough hard with every stroke—trying to catch my breath. The whole boat fairs about as well as I am, there is a chorus of coughs, heavy breathing, and pained groans. Okay, well I am the source of most of the coughs, but Rake and Jester almost groan loudly enough to drown out the sounds of Smithy’s wheezing.

“And in two, weight enough! One, two. Now all 8, hold water while this other boat gets off the dock.”

_Oh, thank fuck_. I practically cry and the reprieve. Then I take in the rest of my boat. George Veles (called “Dragon” because his playlists are straight fire and make land practices _almost_ enjoyable), pivots back to the right face me. Somehow, the man remains untouched by the ravages of intense cardio.

“So, you ready to raid the snack tent?” His smile is practically predatory. He knows I am usually the one that vomits after hard pieces and delights in low-brow humor at my expense.

I muster up my best glare. Between deep breaths I say, “Yeah and when I spew, you have the delightful task of holding back my hair.” Dragon throws back his orange hair and laughs. His whole body, flushed with sweat, shakes and the sun makes him look golden. He’s handsome, and I’ll admit to anyone _but_ him.

“But good rowing, for real yah little Beetle. If you can keep it up for the finalist round, we could take the gold.”

“Okay, alright Lizard-man. Let’s just get to the dock first.” I refuse to call him Dragon. He is an overgrown Lizard-person that surfaced about 300 years too early. Not a Dragon. Dragons are actually cool. George has the energy a gay uncle that gives the best gifts but gets Tik Tok confused with Snapchat regularly. (True story.) Dragon adjusts his hold on the oar to his left hand to offer me a fist bump, which I return because I’m not a total dick. Even if he calls me Beetle.

“Stern pair!!” he says just to me, and then to the rest of the boat, he shouts exhilarated “Pass the bump!”

I pivot on my left to face Smithy, who resembles a tomato. We make eye contact as our fists bump. It lingers before he turns on his right to face Rake. 

“Yo ‘Bert! How water did Dragon splash on you? That last 500 was more splutters than actual coxing!” Lavinia teases to her twin, shouting down the line of the boat. A feat, as she is about 30 feet away from the cox’s seat at the stern.

“He-ayy! No backtalk to your cox until we are off the water! One more warning and you have to swim back to shore Lav.” Cuthbert can maintain his cool on the mic pretty well, until Lavinia starts to chirp him. Then he does become a slave-driver on those Viking ships of old. _Gotta de-escalate this, Gunther._

“Oh, ’Lil majesty, aren’t you one to talk about back splashing? How much of that is your sweat and how much is Talia’s? ”

That raises a laugh from the whole crew, Cuthbert’s the loudest from the speakers underneath our seats. 

“You know, I kinda like it—a refresher during the race. Talia can cool me down anytime.” Lavinia laughs out, as the rest of the boat cringes out an “Ew!” I smile mockingly at her and she scrunches her face in reply. Talia, whose dark skin is dripping, can only laugh at her antics.

“Are you calling me a cool drink of water, Princess?” Talia says with mirth, and _do I detect a hint of flirtation_? _Interesting_.

“All that and more, babe.” Lavinia slides up sternward to rub Talia’s sweating arm. “And I’m feeling thirsty right about now.”

“Oh god” I mumble, more to myself. That was enough for me and I’m pretty sure Cuthbert is about to have an absolute conniption. I turn back sternwards and focus on Dragon to stop my cringe from being that visible.

“Looks like the dock is clear! Stern pair sit ready, everyone else, set the boat! Let’s keep it level. Okay and row on the feather, light pressure.” Cuthbert’s voice puts an end to the bow’s chatter. The boat drops to silence as Dragon and I row the boat to the dock. I sneak a glance to see how close we are, praying that Cuthbert won’t comment on my eyes looking outside of the boat. We are so close—only a few more meters until I can vomit, curl up in a ball, and be comatose until our finalist heat. At this point, I’m 89% sure we made it to the last round. Cuthbert complimented us twice on our effort—that always meant we placed high.

At the dock, Coach Ivon waits to catch our oars. He is normally a stickler for making the cox steer perfectly into the dock, refusing to help until the cox masters the difficult, delicate steering of approaching the dock at a 20-degree angle before straightening out to be perfectly parallel to the dock. But time is of the essence and I can see Samwell and Harvard Crew teams’ boats waiting in the channel to dock. Cuthbert makes the calls for us to go up and out and then we scramble to all grab our shoes and oars out of the riggers. The oars are passed along to waiting novices, so we can carry the boat out.

“Alright, hands on!” Cuthbert calls just as my oar leaves my hands. The other seven and I crouch to grab the gunwales of the boat, hands on either side. “In two, up and over heads. One and two!”

We hoist the 60 foot long boat effortlessly over our heads. Poor Lavinia, at 5’8” can barely even reach the boat. Cuthbert calls out “Indicate split off Jester! Down to shoulders, and down!” We take opposite sides of the boat and let our shoulders carry the brunt of the weight as we carry the boat back to our boathouse. God, I love local regattas, none of that trailer nonsense. Just back into the boathouse and it was naptime for me. But Jesus fuck, do I reek. My uni, emerald green and black, is soaked and at the point of chafing. My burst blisters need attention. But at least I don’t reek as back as Rake. We put the boat back on the rack and trudge back out to our team’s tent.

Dragon, the Ravenous Lizard-man himself, pushes past me to get the chocolate milk, bagel, and CLIFF bar feast laid out before us.

“Are those mint chip? Gunther MOVE.”

_Eurgh_. How Dragon can think of food right now is simply beyond me. Peeling the top half of my uni down, I grab a water bottle and focus on taking small sips. I learned the hard way what happens when you chug water after a race. (Spoiler, I yaked.) The light breeze air on my bare chest is refreshing. I meander my way to a corner and flop down there. The last thing I see is Dragon getting bagel crumbs over my feet. It’s too much effort to turn away. I just close my eyes.

…

There’s someone flicking my arm. Ouch. I crack open one eye. Oh great, it’s Jester. At least in the spring he doesn’t wear that godawful beanie so typically seen on him in the cooler months. But his garish tie-die crocs are a different story. Unfortunately, I must open both of my eyes.

“The novice women are about to dock! Let’s get their boat, sleeping beauty.” At least I was able to get 30 minutes of rest. I _had_ wanted an hour, at least.

Our team had a tradition—after the first race of the season, the varsity crew help the novices carry up their boats back. Something about team bonding BS, but really it was because the little shrimps are probably too weak after their race to carry their boat back. I won’t lie, I mind this tradition greatly because I could be _asleep right now!_ But fine, let’s help out the shrimps. _Is it too late to say I am allergic to shellfish?_

We make our way down to dock. Dragon is already there, cheering up a storm. He is talking to anyone who will listen, which now is me, about “Oh the girls did so well!”, “I’m so proud of them!”, and “Jane’s such a good stroke seat for them!” Now I am … _friendly?_ enough with my own boats (mixed 8+ and men’s 8+), but I don’t interact with anyone else, much less novices. I guess Dragon is close to the novice women’s stroke seat? Okay.

“Um… which heat did they do?” I need to maintain my part in this vague friendliness, so its about time I interject with a question of my own.

“They just did the finalist round! Had the next boat beat by at least 20 seconds and…” At this point, I tune him out and look towards the crew in question. There’s it is, the KippU green unisuits and yellow Empacher boat are easy to spot. Dragon and Jester chatter more about the novices’ race. I find the stroke seat they are babbling about. She a shock of long, curly red hair and freckles, but she looks beyond exhausted. I catch their bow seat’s oar and pull them in. Their bow seat blushes as I do so, _oops, left my uni rolled down_. Once they are lined up, I hear their cox a small, olive skinned girl with a long braid call the girls up and out after she disembarks. That’s when it all goes to shit.

All the girls rise at the same time when their stroke collapses. One foot on the dock, another on boat, and she falls into the water _. Shrimp down_! Their cox screams while Dragon scrambles to grab the redhead out of the water. Some of other novices are still in the boat, only three of them made it on the dock. I kneel and bark at them to stay put—no one is to move until the girl is out of the water. She’s not moving—entirely unresponsive and sinking. Jester shouts “JANE,” and panics, eyes wide and wild. He’s only going to make a mess of this.

“Jester get Ivon.” I say loudly and calmly. He sprints off.

Dragon pulls the… Jane? out of the water. He carries her bridal style. She’s a skinny thing- soaking wet and pale. She looks to be a good dealer taller than the rest of them. Odd, given how the lightweight category meant for shorter rowers. But, she made the weight limit, so what was I to say. I’ve seen more than a few novices go down on the ergs, but never on the water. Ivon, grey hair in a flurry behind him, arrives and inquiries about her. I only catch snippets of their conversation as I help the other novice women get off the boat.

“Is she—”

“—breathing, yeah but it’s weak. I think she relap—”

“—Are you sure about that?”

“None of us wanted to see it, thought she beat it years ago in—”

The two briskly move to the boathouse, for her privacy. All I can focus on is Jane’s thin, limp wrist that moves in time with Dragon’s steps. Jester is white as a sheet, pupil’s still small dots. I get him to carry oars with Rake.

Smithy and I carry the novice boat back, with the remaining seven girls, into the boathouse. Their coxswain almost appears unaffected, if not for the slight warble in her calls. She must be confident and true for their sake. I go into our coach’s office to inform Coach Ivon that the rest of the novice girls are safely off the water. But there is already a discussion about how will take Jane to get medical attention. _Huh? Rowers faint or puke all the time—this isn’t that abnormal_. I wait outside the door in some vain attempt to respect her privacy. _But if she’s still unconscious…_ The nearest hospital is at our school’s campus, only 20 minutes away. Of course, our coaches can’t just leave. KCRI is hosted by our school and there is not enough staff to spare. Dragon and Jester both vehemently oppose an ambulance—stating that it wouldn’t take her to the correct location.

“I’m her brother, let me take her!” What, Dragon is related to her? While the two have red hair, they look nothing alike. Honestly, there is no reason for me to eavesdrop like this, but I’d rather be in here than outside, where my father can accost me. He always gave me at least an hour to … recover. It was more for his sake than mine. He just didn’t want a vomit prone, sweaty rower on his hands to showboat to the wealthy elites that came to watch regattas. I’m so glad this is just local universities and all I can expect is one long talk about how I could have done better. At least there won’t be _mingling_. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no misanthrope, I just can’t stand all that fake politeness and posturing.

I must have missed the rest of the conversation because Dragon is in the doorway now, giving me an inquisitive look. “Gunther, you’re here. I don’t know how much you—”

“Nothing, I just got here.”

He’s carrying Jane again. Her long red hair reflects the harsh fluorescent light and she’s wrapped in a blanket.

“Jester and I are taking her to hospital. Our finalist heat is in three-ish hours. We should be back before then.”

I nod. “I hope she’s… well.” I flounder on the ‘well.’ I don’t know this novice, but based on how serious Dragon is and how much terror is on Jester’s face, I should probably convey some emotion. I’m not quite sure which one.

Am I hoping that she’s okay more for our boat’s sake than her own? … Yes. To have both our stroke seat and bow seat be MIA before our heat is stressful. We can’t race without them and our boat’s lineup isn’t just filled that easily. There isn’t just another two rowers that can match them laying around. And we _need_ to win the finalist heat. If we win this invitational regatta, we qualify for regionals and have a shot at nationals. Winning nationals would make the world of difference for our crew. We would get more funding, more recruitment and be able to compete more. So, forgive me if I care more about the fact that we may forfeit just before the finalist round than if some girl couldn’t handle the exertion rowing demanded.

The singles go out, then the quads. I watch those events with envy—I don’t know how to scull just yet. The plan was to learn this coming summer. For the first time, I’d intern at a local law firm and be able to practice on the water.

The novice men have their finalist round. Our team is second, only by 1 second. _Pathetic_. Coach Theodore shouts boom through the boathouse as he berates their loss.

_Maggots, only half an hour left_.

The varsity women have their own rounds; first the lightweight, then the heavyweight women. I stick close to Coach Ivon. If my father comes close, Ivon can easily send him away or regale him with regatta talk. If Dragon and Jester come back, I’ll be the first to know it. Either way, it’s a win for me. Plus, I don’t have much to say to the rest of my boat. Dragon was the only one I really ever chatted with. All the others seemed wrapped up in their own friends anyways. Lavinia and the girls all are laughing by the water bottles. Smithy is reassuring the novice men that “no, you aren’t a lily-livered pansy” and that they shouldn’t be terrified of him . Rake and the novice women’s cox are talking—both blushing. Everyone looks so content. Like they all fit in and belong. I’m fine being alone right now. Really.

I’m busy shoving down my emotions, _it’s not jealously, I just want to win_ , when Jester runs in. He’s less panic stricken than before, but he looks grave. _Oh no, where’s Dragon?_ He’s got sweats thrown over his uni and is pulling Coach Ivon aside.

But I don’t need to hear their conversation to know what they are saying.

We can’t race the finalist round. We forfeit our entry because there’s no way we can row without a stroke seat.

I don’t feel angry, just numb as go back to the boathouse. Numb and empty as I change out of my uni into streetwear. My shoulder are slumped as I carry my backpack out. I need a shower. This is all that novice’s fault. If Jane had be stronger, I’d be on the water and getting a gold medal.

“Boy!”

My back straightens and fear courses through my body. I should have never thought I could escape without my father noticing.

A large man, standing tall at 6’1” and broader than me, my father has always had this larger than life presence sharpened by his bespoke suits of deep maroon and piercing pale blue eyes. This won’t end well. I steel myself for the inevitable…

…

That wasn’t enough. I a disgrace to him. I thought I could handle his words. Like I am prone to, I thought wrong. I spend the rest of the day and night staring at the ceiling of my dorm room.


	3. Washed out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gunther finished up spring quarter at Kipp U feeling like he can't do anything right. It doesn't seem to go away during the summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Rowing Vocab** _
> 
> **Sculling** : Rowing in which there are two oars, one in each hand of the rower; opposed to _Sweeping,_ where a rower only has one oar held by both hands. Last chapter featured sweeping. Only in sculling is it possible to row in a single.
> 
> **Single** : One person in a small, narrow shell, or racing boat.
> 
> **PR** : Personal record; also called PB for personal best. Complete a test piece (2k or 6k) at one’s fastest time yet.
> 
> **Erg** : Indoor rowing machine, short for ergometer, but no. Beyond horrific piece of equipment that every non-rower in the gym uses incorrectly.
> 
> **Trou** : rowing spandex shorts; loose clothing will get caught in the slide and rip.
> 
> **Head of the Charles** : the most elite/prestigious Fall regatta (race) in North America. Races are 6,000m long, opposed to the sprints in the spring regattas, that are only 2,000m.
> 
> All aboard the angst train...

“ _And lately I've been thinking_

_I'm not feeling anything at all_

_Will I survive in the dead of night?”_

_Paralysis_ , Young the Giant

For the rest of April, I push myself harder on the ergs and water practices. Because of the _incident_ at KCRI, our statewide regatta, the KippU Rowing team wasn’t invited to the regional regatta for the East coast. We finished our spring season with smaller, local scrimmages instead of the elite regatta, ACRA, where the best college crews of the nation competed. While there was a pay to play option open to send our top boats, the fire that we had started in the early spring had been extinguished. That red-haired novice woman took a leave of absence—taking with her Dragon, who quit the team so he would have time to visit her and graduate as planned in June. We were out of our top rowers in the varsity mixed and novice women’s crews.

My father took all these setbacks as a result of my personal failure. Which he was right. If I hadn’t been so lazy last summer and _finally_ learned how to scull while I worked at my last internship, we wouldn’t have been in this predicament. My _excuse_ at the time was that the internship was draining. I barely had weekends or evening to call my own. But Father was right in saying that I could have done more; it was _my own_ failure to motivate myself sufficiently. I did keep up my rowing skills by biking and erging, but I should have pushed myself to improve. If I had, it wouldn’t have mattered we were out of our former stroke seat, I could have filled his spot. Seven seat was expendable, the stroke—who the whole boat looked to for the pace, power, and guidance—was not as easily replaced. I should have been better, for the team, for myself. I owed it to them and to my father’s legacy.

He was our university’s top donator since I had been admitted and personally saw to it the rowing team was to receive enough funding for a new eight each year. To him, I represented all that _expense_. I was a walking reminder of the money poured into the school for the administrators and deans. $60,000 in tuition, $60,000 minimum—for boats, oars, ergs, travel—to the team, and whatever the hell it cost for the new building in school of business. A stupid amount of money, because he even got the Business school renamed. To say that my father was disappointed in our season was an understatement. I lost the privilege of sending weekly updates through his PA and had to face the man himself with my progress. Running through the usual: grades, practice, career updates like diligent robot only programed to say “yes, sir” after every demand. I learn that answering his calls in the shadowy corridors of our Classics building is infinitely better than my sunny dorm room. I tend to get less … emotional when in public. It so much easier to school my expressions and temper my tone when the threat of someone passing by is emanant.

April is now finishing up with little fanfare. As I walk on the populated quad after a _lovely_ phone call from my father, I can’t help but think about how other students see their time here at Kipp U. I see some of the crew members between two trees, unmistakable in emerald green t-shirts with golden oars and neon spandex. Imari’s head is Talia’s lap, with Talia braiding her long hair. Some novices I don’t know are squabbling in hammock, with Jester and Lavinia seeming to be edging the whole affair on as Smithy and Rake looking on with disdain. I can hear bits of their conversation, roasts from Jester, laughter from Talia, one-liners from Lavinia as the two novices volley insults at another. And yet, they all look so happy and comfortable with another. There was no real malice, jus the intimacy of people that had spent too much time with another that the lines of their identity blur, where insults and endearments blur and a seamless fabric of memories bonded them. Did they see the gothic building surrounding the quad and feel awed, hopeful or excited? Did the golden afternoon sun seem as radiant as their friendship? Or did they look up at the towering grey structures, with gargoyles that stared down from atop pointed arches and feel the same dread, the same exhaustion at the crushing work to be done inside those buildings? Is that just me who feels like this?

I snap my head down to the tiled pathway and hurry away before any of them can see me. I can’t tell if I want to be noticed or not. Right now, I relish in the transparency found in our main library. Where I can be seen as nothing more a fixture of the background, just another student studying amid a sea of downturned heads and laptop screens.

May comes and goes just the same.

Then June begins with lurch. Varsity rowers interested in a sponsored off-campus housing assignment for the nest year are called to stay after practice. My father, bankroll the team’s endeavors obtaining equipment at caliber that not even our university could afford, seemed to think that it gave him a say in the internal workings of the team. I wasn’t surprised to find that _he_ would be the one to dole out housing assignments, and not the actual coaches, who worked with us daily the whole year. (And who actually get to know us…)

So, there he stands, a broad, middle aged man in a bespoke suit, looking down at the rambunctious college students all clad in sweats and spandex, in the boathouse’s lounge. It was clear who among Coach Ivon, Coach Theodore and my father, really commanded the room. At least there were others besides me that were also unable to meet the scrutiny of my father’s gaze and filed around him with bowed heads and tight shoulders. I stand in the back of the room, off to the left side where I could avoid my father’s pale blue eyes the most. 

I try and find an interesting grain on wooden floors to drown out their speeches to us. I’m sure it’s the usual: “ _You are the standard bearers of our state, we expect more_ ,” from Theodore, “ _God may not be real, but I am and you should fear me_ ,” from Ivon and “ _I won’t keep throwing money at this team unless I see tangible results_ ,” from my father.

“—donated two apartment units near Campus South, as a reward for the top rowers—”

_Hold up_ , what? My head snaps up to my father, a mistake I quickly realize, when his icy blue eyes bore into mine. I feel a deep pit form in my stomach, my insides cold and sinking.

“—to be closer to the boat house and be able to practice more. I do not give patronage to _slackers_.” The last comment was meant for me. I was sure of it. I struggle not to hunch my shoulders in shame, to maintain the air of aloofness I had before. I return my gaze to the grain of the wooden floors. And if my posture is stiffer and brows more furrowed, well, I don’t think anyone else besides me would notice.

Coach Ivon, walks us through the test piece, a simple 10 minute warm up, then 750m sprint. The top two rowers of each varsity squad and weight class would have their claim to the apartments. The top rowers would be determined partially by past performance, but mainly, by how fast they did today’s pace. Who among us was the best, was practicing and improving, even when there was not an immediate reason to? Who was consistently giving their all? Those eight people, four men and four women would get free, furnished living accommodations for the rest of their time at Kipp U.

The tone of the room flips like a switch, from quiet and tense to electric and focused. I can hear others anxiously whispers about what a relief on their finances it would be, how easy it would be to get to practice, and how motivating it would be to live with the best rowers.

“Ugh, another institution on campus brought to us by the Breech Blood money. We already have that new wing in the business MBA that I’m certain was from sweatshops in India…”

I don’t even have to look to know that Jester stage whispered that to antagonize me. He may never be ballsy enough able to stand up to our top doner, but he always was able to make some jibe at my own ego. _Never change, Jester._ I’m about to return my own snide remark, when Smithy silences him with a quirk of his blond eyebrows. I don’t really talk with that hulking goliath, but there was always an understanding between us. Recognizing each other’s grindr’s profiles, both faceless pictures of exposed torsos, had bonded us more than I thought. Or it could be the fact that we have been seated in the same boat for the last two years. But, my bets on the grindr.

As soon as the talk is done, I linger, watching the sneaker clad feet hurry out to warm up for the upcoming mini-test piece. As much as I’m glad that it’s not a full 2k, that pit in stomach has been growing steadily. A pair of glossy Italian loafers enters my vision. I can see a distorted reflection of myself, all dull and stretched out in the shined material.

“Boy.” He rumbles out.

My head snaps up, I square my shoulders and make sure my spine is straight. My father abhors weakness and cowardice. I clench my fists, pressing my nails deep into the flesh of my palms. That always worked to stop my hands from shaking.

“Don’t disappoint me. I’m not doing this from the goodness of my heart. You are on this team to make something of your name.”

“Yes, sir.” I clip out curtly. By middle school, I had finally mastered how to respond to my father without stuttering. The trick was to look just under his eyes, where the deep purple bags met his ruddy, bone-white cheeks, so different from my darker skin. As long as I looked at that ugly mess of colors, I wouldn’t have to look him in the eyes, and see myself as he saw me, a failure in the shape of a son.

“I expect you to place first. Do whatever it takes.” His eyes shift. I feel the weight of their wandering gaze pass around the room. “Now that the Lizard boy is gone,” I dare not interrupt him with Dragon’s name, “You are to be the top men’s rower. I want you to stroke the Head of the Charles next fall.” A boat was always entered in races under the stroke’s last name and boat club. He had long since planned to use my station at school as a legitimizer of the Breech name. Whether or not I was okay with it was not up to me.

“I will. I plan to speak to Co—”

“You haven’t already talk about it?” He looms over me.

“I mentioned it… in passing. I thought it best to wait until Dragon graduated out of respect. When we shift from 2k’s to 6k’s, I’ll speak—”

“There is no room for niceties in the wake of _your_ ambition! You would let this wait, to have some other rower _steal_ what is rightfully yours? What I have pushed for? You would let the last two years mean nothing?”

“No, sir! I just—”

“You just _what?_ Don’t give me another excuse about for your laziness.” He scoffs. “Go, warm up while I clean up another one of your messes.” With that, I am waved off. A bitter lemon taste rises in my throat, as the pit falls further in my stomach. With great effort, I unclench my fingers to admire the white crescents that have yet to fade from my palms. They sting, which won’t make pulling this piece any easier.

_Pain is weakness leaving the body. It’s just a 750 sprint. Your pathetic ass can manage it just fine._

By the time I reach the erg room, all the rowing machines are taken except for one at the end of the front row. No one wants to be in the front, but at least I have the wall to my left. One less direction I have to worry about for someone else to be looking at my erg display. It’s enough pressure to have the coxswain and coaches peer over my back to see what I am rate I am pulling at. At least I only have to worry about Smithy chancing glances at my score. Sweatshirt off, Air Pods in, playlist blasting. All else fades to the background as the bass rumbles deep into the base of brain, where all I need to do is get my muscles loose and heart beat up. I finish my warmup as the women’s team pulls their 750m. Sweating, I peel off my shirt and am left only in my black trou. I lay it on top of my favorite red and grey sweatshirt, hiding my iPhone. Music paused, pods off.

The men are called to weigh themselves, so that our weight-adjusted scores will be used to judge our times. Cuthbert, with his pinched-up pug-dog face, lords over the scale with his ever-present clipboard. I rattle off my height and step on the scale, not bothering to remove my shoes. _189.2_ _lbs._ Exactly what I expected to see. But, not even the pre-erg test routine can soothe me. The dual sinking and rising feelings have not subsided at all. I am all stretched out, pulled in every direction as my heart thuds faster, faster. I just want to snap my Pods back in, to let the heavy bass deafen my thoughts.

My father is by my erg, arms crossed and face stern. I give him a sharp nod, not wanting to hear anything else he has to say to me. That seems to be enough for him and he leaves me to pull the piece. Before he leaves the room, I spy him shaking Coach Ivon’s hand.

“Set your monitors to 750m,” booms out Coach Theodore.

I scramble to the seat, strapping my feet in before mashing buttons on the monitor. My hands are shaky as they grab for the handle.

“Sit ready at the catch.”

Legs bent, body over, arms out, abs tight. I channel the pit in stomach to different parts of my body, letting the anxiety fuel my rowing. A breath in, then out. I push everything else out of my brain, to focus solely on my body and the monitor in front of me.

“Attention, ROW!”

And with that, a cacophony of _whooshes_ from the ergs’ flywheels begins. Slow, as the first stroke begins from a dead stop, then at steady rhythm as speed and power are built up.

I can’t believe how well the piece goes by—it’s only a short sprint but I feel less resistance from the damper than I had during my warmup. _The faster I pull on the erg, the faster it will be over_. The number dwindle down _, 700, 650, 600, 550_ … Each stroke bringing me closer to the 0m as the seconds creep up. I feel like I’m flying. _450, 400, 350, 300…_ Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Smithy’s movements: legs down, body over, arms in, only a fraction of a second slower than me. I force control in each of my movements, making sure power doesn’t cause any reckless action, keeping my form in check. _250, 200, 150…_ At the last 100m, I give it my all, emptying all my strength into the last 10 strokes.

By the time I reach 0m, I am panting and dripping sweat. Letting the handle slap back as I release my grip to signal a coxswain over. All around me I can hear the symphony of erg pieces: whooshes, heavy breaths, grunts, and screams of exertion all topped with the screams of the coxswains edging us on, faster, harder, more power. I gulp down water noisily while Cuthbert takes my score. _2 minutes and 23.1 seconds_. There’s a burn in my lungs and a fire in my legs. The pit I felt in my stomach has become a warm glow of pride. I finished first, of all the varsity men. I let the high of doing well carry me through the cooldown. I can actually feel myself smile.

I find myself chatting with Smithy as he cools down. He finished about 6 seconds after I did, the second best heavyweight varsity man. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind living with him at all, he seems quiet, respectable, and most importantly, will not judge me for who I end up bringing home after a party.

I put on my shirt quickly, finally feeling cooled down and no longer dripping. After we clean up the ergs, I begin to roll mine to the wall when I notice the damper on the flywheel has been moved.

Normally, all the ergs have a resistance set between 4 and 5. That level mimics what the water would feel like. A crushing weight builds up in my throat, rising like a bitter wave, before sinking deep, plunging my insides down as everything clicks into understanding. Cleaning up my mess, standing by my erg, the handshake… My father didn’t think I would be able to secure the position as top rower of the heavyweight men’s squad. So, this is what he resorted to, _cheating_. Unable to trust me to do the one thing that I loved. Decreasing the resistance so my spot was secure. Why else would he donate the properties, without a guarantee?

My hands _trembles_ as I set the damper back to the proper setting. _Pathetic_. My thoughts swirl down, a spiral of suck effectively triggered. _I’m so weak, so useless, so—_

“Hey Gunther, do you wanna grab breakfast at Baker? Some of us are going to make the trek up to the north campus.” Interrupts Rake softly. Despite all the power and aggressiveness he had in the boat, the guy always maintained an air of delicate gentleness, which is why I didn’t immediately snap at him.

I school my expression to as neutral and aloof as I can, “Nah, I got a big econ PSet to do.”

“Alright! Suit yourself.”

It’s the small disappointment in his furrowed brow that makes me choke out a “Thanks, though.”

I can’t bear to be around people right now. To see all their smiling faces, and expressions of joy and affection while I feel so _awful_ , like a cloud of negativity surrounds me, sucking the fun out of everything, no, I can’t. I wish I could say that I was productive. That I channeled my emotions, the tangled mess of disappointment, hurt, anger, and loss, into something. That I was able to push past it. But, all I am good at is being a disappointment.

I spent the rest of the day in a restless haze. Unable to focus but also itching for some outlet. I changed in my dorm before grabbing my backpack to pretend to get some work for class done at a cubicle in our library. For I sat there for four hours. My textbook open at the same page as my laptop down slowly dwindles down in power. Each percentage of the battery creeps down as the minutes achingly pass by, while I reread the same opening sentence of a paragraph. When I feel myself come back into my body, I feel a hair trigger away from combusting. A leg jiggling, a nose snuffing, a crinkle of a turning page. Each noise pulls my attention with ire.

I shove my things back into my bag with a huff. A warm pulse leeches into my body as my hands clench. I stomp my way back to my dorm, moving on autopilot. Before I know it, I am dumping out my backpack onto my desk, wincing slightly as my laptop hits the surface with a dull thud. But honestly, I can’t even bring myself to care about it.

The glass of empty bottles, various souvenirs of parties past, captures the harsh fluorescent light of my dorm in a way that is almost pretty, in a vulgar, unique way. It’s no problem for me to scoop all the bottle up and in one fell swoop, have them all clang into my awaiting backpack. With a zip of my backpack and a slam of my door, I’m stomping down the stairs and out of the lobby. The moon is barely a sliver in the sky. _Good_ , I don’t need any light to guide my path, following by muscle memory alone.

Under the cover of darkness, I make my way to our boathouse. Narrowly avoiding other students that trudge along, I pull my hood up and keep my head down. There’s _something_ welling up inside of me. I feel hot, like my body is too small to contain me, like even my own skin is too uncomfortable. I can’t stand even my own shadow. I keep out of the streetlights; out of the reach of lights from unadorned windows, where I can fester my anger in the darkness, where I can boil over without fear of being seen. 

_Finally_ , I reach the chain mail fence that blocks off access to our boathouse’s dock. I sneak through a loose part, just east of the dock, obscured by some shrubbery. I’m careless as I move the fence, scraping my hands and getting leaves and dirt over my clothes. There, in the darkness I can only hear the clink of the glass bottles as I take unsteady steps on the gravel path beside the boat house. But the rest of my senses all seem to fade away.

_Thud. Clink. Zip_. I have an empty bottle in hand. I whip it at the east wall of boathouse, watching as the glass shatters. From there, I don’t stop. Throwing bottle after bottle, hoping for some sort of _release_ , something to make me feel less uncomfortable, less like my skin was crawling off my skin, something to fill up the crushing weight of _emotions_ , that I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—be able to name. My heart is racing. My breathing heavy, labored. I can’t catch a breath. I can’t stop shaking. The last bottle. It nearly drops from my hands. _Pathetic, weakling, a disappointment. Can’t even throw correctly_.

It makes a pitiful arc before hitting the wall and bouncing into the pile of broken glass. Resting in a nest of shattered edges, it lays with a long, lone crack down the length of it. I can see my reflection, distorted with my body cleaved in two along the last defiant glass bottle and I am reflected like a cubist painting in the shards of the weaker glass bottles. I bring my foot up to stomp it, to squash it like I have been squashed. My knee rises, heel down and toes up, body braces to send power into my leg when I stop…

Pause.

Freeze.

I look so ugly in the reflection of the glass. So hateful and angry. Eyebrows furrowed, a deep sneer, nostrils flaring; all in the shards. A little boy, with all my arrogance and pride piled high to hide my lack of self-worth. So ugly, like a snarling beast. I _hate_ him. I hate me… _Why can’t I do anything right_? The question that I had avoided all day finally rises up from the dark recesses.

I plant my foot behind me and stumble to the dock. Sinking down onto myself, I peer over the edge to look at my reflection. The water is calm. I can see myself unperturbed. It doesn’t reassure me, because despite everything… I am still _myself._ I lose track of how long I stayed there, staring at the water, arms wrapped around my knees and back hunched. When the sun makes it’s appearance, I flee into my dorm. I draw the shades and succumb to the darkness…

As I slowly come to yet another morning, I feel weighted down by a grey knot of negative emotions in my chest. All I want to do is turn back into blissful unconsciousness, where I can escape … everything. I feel like I drag myself everywhere, to practice, to class, to my dorm. Time passes. I endure each day.

I spend more time on the dock, looking at the choppy waves, jagged edges of glass that I want to be swallowed in. Each time I sneak in and out through the chain link fence, I pass by my mess, my own shattered glass. My shame and guilt rises like a high tide and _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t_ … I grow angrier, because God, it’s so much easier to be mad right now. My fire for life is fueled through this anger, awaking from dampened embers. But, the light of this fire grows dimmer each day. Anger fades into numbness. And feel less like myself each day that drags on.

Finals are a thing at the very end of May. I go through the motions of being a student and a person. It all feels so … pointless. I start my law-firm internship one week after finals are over.

…

June is full of humid commutes on the train, frigid offices full of suits, and late nights on the water on a single. I make sure to spend as much time away from home—only coming back to sleep. I tell myself that I don’t hate my internship and berate my lack of gratitude at this opportunity instead.

Learning to scull is almost exciting. Almost. But I continue to let each day happen _to_ me, I don’t really do anything for myself because I want to, or I have some desire to do so. I don’t really seem to want anything. Honestly, the only emotion I really feel is numb. I just… endure. I don’t care about how I don’t seem to care about anything anymore. It’s only when I see my coworkers laugh, smile, complain, that I remember I haven’t felt much of anything. 

So, I turn to the internet one night. Tapping out “i don’t look forward to anything and feel nothing” into the search bar of my phone’s browser. The results don’t load fast enough, and I switch from wifi to data. There they are.

I scroll past the Yahoo answers and Quora results. I don’t need some haf-baked chicken soup BS.

Down, down until… _what’s that?_

“5 symptoms of Walking Depression” pops up from a woman’s YA magazine site.

I never thought Cosmo would come though like this. My thumb hovers over the link before I close the tab.

How could I be depressed? I don’t want to die, I shower, eat healthily and any outsider would agree that I am high functioning. Right? But, then again, I don’t do anything. I only row, study, and work for my father. There is nothing else. But I don’t _need_ anything else. I don’t need anyone else… right?

It takes less than five minutes for me to realize how crushingly lonely I am. I can’t really remember being connected, being a part of someone else’s life in a way that mattered. And if I stay curled up, hugging myself into a ball on my bed for a few hours, that’s only for me and my phone screen to know. I stare at it long after the screen dims, then blackens.

_Oh_.

…

July is even hotter and emptier than June. I PR twice for my 2k time, but there’s none of the usual joy that comes with bettering myself. 6:24 is disappointing. I am twenty-five seconds from being sub-six and having my time in the 5-minute range. It’s not enough.

…

August is temperate outside, by volatile inside the walls of my house. My internship finished and I am fine myself home more often than I would like. The evenings when my father returns, I pass with bated breath. I shrink into shadows and make sure to visibly erg and study for the LSAT when there is nowhere to hide from him. I have been larger than him for a while—2 inches of height and the weight training has made be stand tall, but never with the same looming shadow his presence seems to have over me.

By the time school starts back up again, I am so exhausted. I can’t move into my new apartment fast enough, a week before anyone else arrives. I just want to sleep for a bit longer. And if I don’t wake up, that would be fine with me. At least I wouldn’t feel so damn tired and numb all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone!
> 
> Sorry about the late update, I had wanted to get this out a lot earlier… Real life got in the way a bit. The next chapter should be up a LOT faster. 
> 
> Set up the two main recurring motifs/imagery in this chapter. I literally cannot be more hype to see you guys discover them and how they pertain to Janther. o(^◇^)o 
> 
> Thank you to all the lovely reviews from the last two chapters! ILY<3
> 
> Is there anything that isn’t working so well, or could be improved upon? Or anything that you guys are really vibing with/feel is working well. I’ve been scrutinizing my outline for a while, so it’s hard to tell what excites me about the story vs. what readers are responding to. 
> 
> Either way, thanks so much!!!


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